a very cawein christmas

Since I love a tacky Christmas sweater about as much as I love throwing a good party, it's not all that surprising that as the Festivus season approached this year I felt the need to invite literally everyone I'd ever met who currently resides in the greater Memphis area to come to my home wearing something hideous and spend the night dancing and attempting not to puke up booze-laden egg nog.

The flyer I designed for the party touted it as A Very Cawein Christmas, although, as my mother rightly pointed out, there was only one Cawein in attendance. And as I pointed out, if it were truly A Very Cawein Christmas, the tagline would've read: Get Drunk and Say Something You're Probably Going to Regret.

The first beer was poured from the keg around 9 p.m. as the DJs -- my friends Matt and Cameron, the former being an actual DJ and the latter an ex-rapper and connoisseur of the painstakingly constructed iPod playlist -- were setting up the rig in the front room. The nog was mixed. The Christmas lights were on. I was in my "Santa Claus is Coming" tee shirt. Everything was going swimmingly when Cameron decided, right around 10:30 as the party-goers were starting to arrive, that the front porch light needed to be replaced. And as he attempted something that I had never attempted in more than a year of living in this house, we learned why it was probably a good thing that I hadn't. There was a pop. There was an "Oh, shit." And there was the realization that half the lights and outlets in the house had just gone out.

The irony of it all is that the intention was to turn on the front porch light so that the house didn't look completely abandoned, ultimately resulting in the house looking COMPLETELY ABANDONED.

Cameron and Matt spent the next hour driving from midtown to Cordova (and breaking the laws of physics) to buy new fuses, while I spent the next hour trying not to freak out and fielding text messages from people saying, "Hey, I came by your party but it looked like no one was home!" FACEPALM.

When the guys got back and discovered that no replacing of fuses was going to fix the massive electrical issue that had befallen my house, the DJ rig was hastily moved into the dining room and the party started to be revived. We lit candles in the front room and I made a vow between me and the keg on the back porch that nothing would keep me from having a good time in my tacky sweater and my tutu. Yes. MY TUTU.

And when all was said in done, there was only one really bad wax spillage situation, and I've been covering that bad boy up with my Christmas table runner. Not sure what I'm going to do when it's no longer socially acceptable to have Christmas decorations up in your home, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. Maybe sometime in April.

Add to that the fact that no one barfed up spiked egg nog, and I am marking this business down in the win category.




cheers,
elizabeth

the secret mission, and how it didn't even hurt

On my first full day in London, Sarah and I had a very critical mission. A secret mission, if you will. (And clearly, I will.)

We headed down Caledonian Road, not far from where Sarah lived for a while and I called home for a short bit in my last month or two of grad school, to a shop called Jolie Rouge.

Jolie Rouge Tattoos.

For the longest time, since the summer I spent here in undergrad, probably, I've wanted to immortalize my love for London in ink somewhere on my person. For years I've waffled back and forth on what to get. First I wanted a lion with St. George's cross inside, or maybe the union flag. Then I just wanted the flag, by itself, but something artsy. And then something else and something else and nothing ever seemed just exactly right. I knew I wanted it on my hip, and I knew I wanted it to be fairly small. And I knew, most importantly, that it had to be inked in England. I mean, that part seemed obvious to me. It was the only part that seemed obvious to me, actually, until about a week before I left on this trip.

I don't know what happened, but it just hit me. Every pint glass in the UK has to be certified as an imperial pint by a certifying body, and that certification is etched on the side of the glass. Although some newer glasses feature a simpler, text-based seal, the majority of them feature the word pint, the symbol of the crown, and a number representing the district in which the glass was certified.

This was it. The gut feeling, the tap on the shoulder from the universe I'd been looking for, it was there. The feeling I needed to feel was all up in my ear, going, FEEL ME. This is the one.

At first I'd thought I would use the number 904 in the design, since September 4 was the date that I moved to London. But as I was sharing the idea with my coworker John, he suggested I use 901. It's the area code for Memphis.

And so, on Saturday at noon, Sarah and I headed back to Caledonian Road. We ate breakfast in a greasy spoon across from the tattoo parlor, where we met and were serenaded by Cally Road's own Elvis -- which was totally my fault since I decided to try to snipe a picture of him on my phone and was caught right in the act by Mr. Presley himself, who didn't seem to register why it was interesting that I'm from Memphis, but also might be on hallucinogenic drugs -- before heading back to Jolie Rouge for a tattooing experience so utterly painless that I literally almost fell asleep on the table.

And as soon as I saw it, I fell in love. So here you go: a tattoo years in the making, but worth the wait, if only because it now represents the two places in this world that can lay claim to equal parts of my heart.





cheers,
elizabeth


P.S.: You didn't think I'd leave you without a picture of Cally Road Elvis, did you?

a very ironic thanksgiving

Thursday morning I woke up to my second Thanksgiving on English soil, feeling pretty much like I'd felt the last time around: when no one else is talking about turkey and pilgrims and shit, you kind of forget it's anything other than a regular old Thursday.

And that is precisely why I got myself out of bed at a semi-decent hour and headed for Heidi's house to help her peel assorted potatoes both sweet and not-sweet, and also to pull the mind-blowingly disgusting innards out of a turkey carcass. And clearly by that I mean, watch Heidi pull the innards out, screech and dance around the kitchen and call the entire display "moral support."

And of course, Heidi and I observed one of the time-honored traditions of Thanksgiving that surely even our forefathers recognized: the need to stuff one's face ALL DAY LONG in preparation for a gut-bustingly huge meal.

After a really good day of catching up over vegetable preparation and bloody giblets, people started arriving around 7 and the drinking of cider and carving of the turkey commenced. After, of course, we all sat around taking pictures of it with our phones because we were so overcome by its beauty.

As we sat around Paul and Heidi's living room stuffing ourselves, we ended up -- shocking! -- talking about Memphis music. AGAIN. It started when Paul showed me his prized Elvis TCB sunglasses that had been tragically broken on some recent adventure in hopes that I might be willing to make a trek to Graceland to procure a replacement pair for him. Then someone started talking about Big Star and next thing you know I'm being myself, sitting cross-legged on the floor thumbing through Paul and Heidi's record collection like a blind woman feeling someone's face to figure out what they look like, when I find a Box Elders LP and the conversation turns to Goner Records. Someone said, "You know about Goner?" I said, "Their record store is around the corner from my house, y'all."

I crashed at their place that night, and the next morning was awakened by -- wait for it -- the SUN. It was the only truly sunny, blue-skied day of my trip, but it was the perfect timing for it. I was headed to Southwark that morning to hit up Borough Market to get a jar of my favorite jam, find some breakfast and eat a LOT of cheese.

I was meeting up with Paul and Heidi again that night to drink a few rounds at the pub, but before then Sarah and I enjoyed a walk along Regents Canal and an incredible full English at this cute little place called The Breakfast Club in Angel, where I explained to Sarah that The Breakfast Club is actually a film, and those people on the walls are the actors in said film.




This also may have been the day that we discovered that "porn shop" and "pawn shop" sound EXACTLY the same in an English accent.

And then I came home and saw a commercial for a show called "Extreme Pawn." And I laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

Your final installment from the motherland will be, as promised, the real and ultimate secret mission.

cheers,
elizabeth

face-stuffing + secret missions

I was going to start spinning this tale by telling you that Sarah and I enjoyed a very chilled out Monday, but then I realized I'd probably need to tell you about every other day of my trip using the exact same description. And that would get boring real quick like.

It was a fantastic week and a trip that was (as my trips to London always are) so very necessary for the maintenance of my soul. And when you consider that my most recent trip to the motherland prior to this excursion had been a four-and-a-half day whirlwind with New Year's Eve dropped smack in the middle, I suppose anything I could've done this week would've seemed quiet by comparison. Even still, this trip surprised me. I had a full seven days. And those seven days wanted me to just pretend like nothing had ever changed, like there was no urgency to run and see and go, go, go, because it was before October 2008 and I was still a Londoner. So I did.

Monday night Sarah and I went to a funky little bar, about a 20-minute walk from her flat, for wine and people watching. When we got back home we headed up to the roof of her building to see the views of the city.
On Tuesday, I had a secret mission. (Well, confession: I had a secret mission on Monday, too, but you won't get the scoop on that til next time.) On Tuesday I caught a bus from Old Street just up the way past Angel Station to City University, where I had a meeting with an administrator in the graduate school to talk about a research Ph.D in new media.

I know what you're thinking. HOLD UP. Don't I love Memphis? Aren't I happy here? Do I really want to move back to London? Can you SERIOUSLY get a Ph.D in BLOGGING!?

And the answers to those questions are, in order: Yes, I do. Totally and completely, utterly, ridiculously happy. Yes, still, sort of and sometimes more than other times. And yes. YES YOU CAN. Dreams do come true.

The fact is, a third degree is such a long way in the future for me. I have puh-lenty of student loan debt to pay off from my master's degree and the only way the Ph.D is an option is if I'm offered funding by the university. It's not something I could afford to bankroll myself, even if I were debt-free. But I was there, and I've been researching a few of these programs for a while now. I wanted to at least go check out a few campuses, meet some people, get some questions answered. Look for some overwhelming sign from the universe. The usual.

I absolutely adored City University. It's in a fantastic neighborhood and its media program is top-notch. I could really see myself living in Angel, taking jogs along Regents Canal, studying in the British Library like I used to do back in grad school from time to time. It would be a wholly different academic experience from my undergrad or my time at Brunel, because the campus blends seamlessly into the heart of London.

After the completion of this first part of my secret mission (part deux went down the next day at Goldsmith's College in New Cross, which I liked but didn't feel as strongly about as City), I headed to Covent Garden to check out the Christmas decor and finally purchase The Most Amazing Tee Shirt Ever, which you may remember me writing about after my trip to London last year.

My secondary reason for hitting up Covent Garden was in hopes of locating some heinously tacky William and Kate paraphernalia for Stef, but it seems even the producers of heinous souvenir crap were not yet on top of their game with the royal engagement. Kind of shocking, really. I mean how long does it take to design a poorly illustrated commemorative plate? Let's get on it, folks.

That night I headed to Greenwich to see my friend Stephanie and her husband Chris, and meet their daughter Bella, who I have stalked pictures of on Facebook for the entire 18-some-odd months of her life, for the very first time. Not surprisingly, I wanted to put her in my pocket. Or, alternately, just nom nom her right there, on the spot. For dinner. And dessert.
Instead, though, we headed out for curry at one of Steph and Chris's favorite places in Greenwich, where I proceeded to eat way too much and drink several large and icy cold Cobra beers. And just when I thought my stomach could take no more, we headed back to their place where I was offered banana pudding. And, honestly. When have you ever known a southern girl to turn down banana pudding?

You will not be shocked to learn that I food-coma napped on the train the entire way home, and at least once considered just riding the train to the end and back because train naps are just. that. AWESOME.

Wednesday night (after the continuing adventures of the secret mission) I got super sassed up and went to Cicada. Sarah was bartending that night, so I sat at the bar, drank some seriously fancy martinis and ended up (put your surprised face on) in an intense conversation about soul music with a 50-something-year-old guy named Gary who, incidentally, also wanted to know if I liked American basketball? Needless to say, we like Gary. Also, Gary bought all my fancy martinis. WE LIKE GARY.

Up next: English Thanksgiving, the second (and even more secret) secret mission and other assorted adventures.


cheers,
elizabeth

lessons in running on fumes

When I touched down in London on Sunday, I felt decent, all things considered. I hadn't slept great during the flight so I was dreading the eventual crash I knew was inevitable, but for the moment I was feeling awake and enjoying the calm that had suddenly washed over me, one I can only accredit to the realization that you are just exactly where you're supposed to be.

After an unusually pleasant conversation with the gal in passport control, I gathered my suitcase from baggage claim and headed to the underground. I got to Old Street station around 10 a.m. and Sarah and I headed back to her flat for some tea and breakfast. Our mission for the day -- other than jabber endlessly at each other in an effort to make up for about 11 months without it -- was to keep me awake and kick jet leg right square in its big ugly ass. And mostly? Mostly. We succeeded.

We went to Camden and changed out my dollars, got some lunch and bopped around charity shops and wound our way through the market and looked at the locks. We went by Sarah's work -- a posh restaurant and bar that she called Suh-KAH-Duh and I called Cicada -- and I explained to Sarah that Bob Dylan is referring to a town in Alabama, and not being stuck inside of an object called "a mobile."




At some point that afternoon we rescued ourselves from the cold in a coffee shop where we accidentally queued for the ladies' room for at least 10 minutes before realizing we were waiting for a toilet and not for tea and/or its associated biscuits. We met up with Pete there and had a good visit before we set off for the flat again to get ready for a night out.

Now here is where things got a little dicey on that whole "kicking jet lag square in its big ugly ass" thing. Sarah and her boyfriend Simba run an open mic night in Camden on Sundays called the Camden Sunday Sessions. It's upstairs at this pub called the Camden Head, and from what I can tell they draw a pretty decent crowd for only having been at it a short while now. As with any open mic, the wretchedly, painfully bad are quite unavoidable. We had the girl who insisted on singing a capella, and the guy who, rather than commit THAT unspeakable sin, just read song lyrics that he'd written out loud, something that might have been vaguely cool if he were using his spoken word voice as opposed to his third-grade-book-report voice.

Then there was the woman with the crazy thick Eastern European accent who said that she was rehearsing every chance she got right now, because "Next week I am audition for Britain's Got Talent." I wanted her to be good, I really did. If only to do justice to the furry cover on her keyboard.



And really, there were some good singers and songwriters there and it's a shame that the schadenfreude in me will not allow me to even conjure up the slightest ounce of a memory of those people, but when you get to see a woman so inept with her own instrument that she needs the guy running the open mic to tune her guitar for her, your brain kind of becomes overwhelmed with the FACEPALM of it all and there is highly limited room for awesome after that.

(Not only did Simba have to tune her guitar for her, he then had to spend around 15 minutes convincing her that it was, in fact, IN TUNE, because she kept insisting it sounded wrong and even went so far as to sing, in the middle of one of her pieces, "I'm changing the chords on this because it sounds out of tuuuune!" It was funny at first, but then it became maddening when a.) we realized just how badly this lady could not hear pitch; and b.) she WOULD NOT SHUT UP ABOUT IT.)

What we can say for Out of Tune Lady is that she did keep me awake with her insanity. Probably the more accurate reason I cannot remember the good people as well is because when they started playing with their nice lyrics and their lovely voices, my head rocked straight back and went SMACK into the brick wall behind the couch where I was sitting. Luckily I was in the back of the room where only Sarah could witness my extreme narcolepsy, but I am proud to say I made it until past midnight without major incident that day.

We had a good lie in the next morning, which my body very much appreciated, and which I naturally followed up by eating almost an entire roll of McVities biscuits. Breakfast. Of. English. Champions.

Still to come: Covent Garden, a secret mission (or two), curry and Cobra beer, martinis and soul music, English Thanksgiving and Caledonian Road's very own Elvis.


cheers,
elizabeth

here's to good intentions, and mostly forgetting them

Never again will you hear me say, "I'm just going to have one drink tonight." Or even, "I'm not getting too drunk tonight" or "I need to get in early." Never. Never, ever, neversies, not again, no way and also? NO HOW.

Because something happens when I utter words like that out loud. Something inside me gets roused and it will not rest until I have risked every ounce of dignity I ever had, tested the limits of stupidity and put at least a handful of my ultimate life goals in a state of complete jeopardy, all while cackling wildly about that SILLY LITTLE TWO DRINK LIMIT.

And to that I say, no thank you sir.

I came to this decision, the decision to void those potentially goading phrases from my vernacular, some time on Saturday morning as I was getting ready to leave the country and also picking up the pieces of the god awful state of dumb drunk I'd managed to get myself in the previous night after swearing on twelve stacks of bibles that I'd be home and in bed at midnight. (If memory serves -- and when I say memory, I clearly mean the retelling of the events to me by witnesses and innocent bystanders -- some time after midnight I lost my phone and began sobbing uncontrollably and then sat down quite aggressively -- translation: fell -- smack on my ass on the concrete steps in front of the bar.)

Luckily, praises be to your deity of choice, my phone was found and I boarded the plane the next day, mostly in one solid piece. You'll have to check with TSA on that one, because I'm pretty sure they saw ALL my pieces.

After the week I'd had I was ready for some unspeakable disaster to happen on the way to London, but it was one of the most uneventful flights I've ever experienced. We landed on time, I sailed through passport control and in no time I was topping up my travelcard and purchasing my inaugural Ribena of the trip to drink on the ride into the city.

My friend Sarah is living around Old Street now, and arriving there Sunday morning made me smile because I spent a lot of time coming and going from that station during grad school when I worked for a call center that sits directly above the underground. I rang her and she came to meet me to walk back to her flat, and the moment I saw her I had the oddest feeling, a feeling she later in the week articulated a lot better than I'll manage to now.

It was just, well, Sarah. I mean, I was thrilled to see her, don't get me wrong. Ecstatic. But we just have an easy friendship. We pick up right where we left off, almost exactly the way I do with that city. When I'm back in London, it feels like I've never left.



More to come.


cheers,
elizabeth

back to americashire

My body is still pretty sure it's in London. And I'm not going to blame that entirely on the strict diet of mince pies, Ribena and British cheese I've been strictly following since my return, although it may be partially responsible.

Mostly I keep waking up around 4 a.m., eyes opened wide, wondering why I feel pretty certain that I'm totally and completely oversleeping. And then round about 8 p.m. I feel like I've been hit by a train of triptophens and that if I don't locate my bed soon, narcolepsy is going to become a pre-existing condition on my next health insurance application.

It's only been a few days, though, so hopefully that'll all sort itself out soon. And I finished all my mince pies, anyway, so it's just a matter of time. Please?

I've got some tales to spin for you from the motherland, as always, though they're not nearly as salacious as I'd thought they might be. And I'm fairly okay with that. It was a low-key week of seeing friends, eating to the point of physical discomfort and then going back for more, drinking good beer and even better cider and just enjoying being in England. Letting my little accent fade into transatlantic obscurity. Being called love, eating biscuits and drinking tea, spending some quality time with my second home.

But low-key doesn't mean void of adventure, and those adventures will be shared with you in the next week. I didn't take very many pictures, but I did manage to download the Hipstamatic app for the iPhone before I left (actually while toodling about the Detroit airport on my outbound layover) so I've got some great artsy shots that took absolutely no effort whatsoever on my part to share and take an undeserved level of pride in.

Barring being eaten by the 57 holiday parties I have this week, the recaps should begin tomorrow. Til then, I'll keep pretending the chill in my toes is from the English air.


cheers,
elizabeth